The Thieves of Legend

by Richard Doetsch

  Xiao was willing to buy the diary back from Marconi at triple his original outlay. But Marconi didn’t want to sell, explaining he had not bought it as an investment.

  When Xiao offered ten times, Marconi became interested. He would sell it in a month’s time. Xiao would have to come to his seaside castle in Italy as his guest and they would conclude the transaction.

  But Xiao had had no intention of paying for something that was rightfully his. His attempt to steal Zheng He’s diary had failed and Isaac had nearly killed him on the waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea.

  But now, as night was falling over Macau, Xiao would beat his brother to it and finally unlock the mysteries the book contained, the mysteries his mother had so feared.

  CHAPTER 30

  “Good evening,” the tall woman with a polished English accent said into the house phone of the Venetian. “Suite 3402, please.”

  As the line began to ring, she smiled. She couldn’t bring herself to ask for Warren Grossberg, couldn’t imagine lying in bed in the moments after passion with a man named Warren, as if it were the name of the overweight neighbor from her childhood in London. Looking around the casino, she wondered how many people were actually registered under their own names and how often the desk clerk had to stifle a laugh at the creative aliases that were thrown about.

  With no answer on the other end of the line, she left a brief, innocuous message and hung up.

  Brushing her hand through her thick red hair, Pamela Weiss adjusted the jade and ivory comb that “Warren Grossberg” had given her, picked up her small travel bag, and headed for McSorley’s Old Ale House. Except for the three bags of nuts and two glasses of wine on the plane, she hadn’t eaten since last night. So many asked her how she stayed in such great shape at forty-five, and while she was able to squeeze in yoga and running a few times a week, her real secret was never having time to eat: always in meetings, traveling for business, forgoing food for stress or just one more phone call. She was as much a workaholic as “Warren” was.

  He had given her the name and his room number in case of emergency, with strict instruction to use the alias. She was supposed to be in Tokyo for the next week on assignment but wanted to surprise him with an early-evening visit. She needed to see him as much as she knew he needed to see her. Just a few hours and then the warmth of each other’s embrace while they slept.

  AS HE HIT the Cotai Strip, Sergeant Reiner was thankful to be free of the colonel for the next hour. Assigned at the last minute as his attaché, Reiner obeyed the directive from the Pentagon without question, as he had always followed orders.

  The colonel, while not verbalizing it, was not happy about the assignment, preferring to select his team himself, but the upper brass was growing concerned about the colonel’s safety and ordered him to bring along an attaché—reminding him of his station within the military, and that others should be handling the mundane tasks so he could maintain focus on the current assignment. Despite Lucas’s displeasure, they had made a connection; Lucas realized the danger he was in and accepted Reiner on their team.

  Reiner was apprehensive about leaving the colonel alone at the hotel, but the man had insisted. The colonel wanted a specific file from the safe house, and if the upper brass insisted Lucas had an errand boy, he would put that errand boy to work, allowing himself to check in and get up to speed with the rest of his team. If there was an issue, he already had a man in the hotel whom he could turn to.

  Reiner had never been to Macau and refused to look the part of a tourist. He had memorized four separate routes to his destination, as the last thing he wanted to do was carry around a trifold map like some lost puppy. Dressed in a blue sport coat, his hair cut one level above bald, he rejoiced in the twenty-minute walk over the bridge and into downtown Macau. He hated long plane rides, and while the military jet they had flown over on was well appointed, there was no amenity that would help one forgo jet lag and fatigue.

  While the bright lights and heavy security on the Cotai strip projected a sense of safety, that soon evaporated as he walked several blocks into the run-down section of old Macau. He was surprised to find it looking more European than Eastern with its stuccoed buildings, torn and soiled awnings over the windows, cobblestone streets, and alleys. The humid air, trapped within narrow streets bordered by run-down structures, was thick with the alternating smells of urine, sweet meat, and rotting garbage.

  This was the area never spoken of in the brochures, never mentioned in the marketing materials that attracted people to this new gambling mecca. Much as with Paris, New York, and London, the seamier sides of town were never mentioned, always shunned, and spoken of as something from the past.

  The sidewalks were packed, people moving with purpose, quickly hurrying away from or to a safer destination. He saw the gang lookouts on corners, the low men on the totem poles who kept an eye on all activity, feeling their stares at his back as the lone American walked quickly through their territory. He felt a tinge of claustrophobia, something that always rose up when he was in a foreign land with people of different customs and appearances. He always said that he was open-minded, far from prejudiced, but he couldn’t help feeling far more comfortable around his own kind.

  He was surprised at the location of the safe house, as the area didn’t seem safe at all, though he understood it would draw little attention with everything else going on in the vicinity.

  Reiner had known fear, every soldier had; he knew it in Iraq and Afghanistan, but it was his mastery of his fear, of keeping his mind focused that allowed him success on the battlefield. He had never thought of Macau as a battlefield, but as the streets grew darker and more run-down, he sensed that it was just as dangerous as any area of conflict he had been stationed in.

  He felt the weight of the .45 in his shoulder holster, taking comfort in its familiarity. He was near marksman status with it, but outside of war, he hadn’t fired it except in the range, usually allowing his fists to settle any confrontation.

  He found the nondescript brothel, entered, nodded to the madam, and headed up the stairs. He had never been in a house of ill repute, having been raised a strict Catholic. With a singular focus on his beautiful dance-coach wife at home, his thoughts never ran to having to pay for sex. And though he wasn’t there for carnal pleasure, he felt the guilt fill him nonetheless, like a child who sneaks a peek in a girly magazine at the corner shop and gets caught by his mother. He wouldn’t be mentioning this part of his trip to his wife.

  He went to the door at the far end of the hall, inserted the special key that the colonel said would override the thumbprint, punched in the code, and entered.

  His hand shot to the pistol inside his jacket when he saw the man with the head of thick brown hair sitting at the large table, reviewing schematics, furiously making notes, and completely ignoring him. Beside him was a large man, six feet four, blond hair, engrossed in a novel.

  With his nerves still on high alert, he hadn’t expected to find anyone there; realizing his mistake, he left the gun in its holster.

  “Sorry,” Reiner said. “You startled me.”

  The two men looked up and nodded.

  “Sergeant Reiner,” Reiner said in introduction, glad to see a non-Chinese face.

  “Michael,” the note-taking man said in response, barely looking up from his work.

  “Paul,” the other said as he looked up from his book. He was large, his eyes wary as they assessed him before falling back to the page.

  “Just need to grab something.” Reiner quickly went to the filing cabinet, retrieved the thick folder labeled Xiao—Level-5 Clearance—Eyes Only. He quickly looked through the dossier; it was thick with details on Xiao’s criminal past, on his rise to the head of the Tiger Triad, on its links to terrorism. It detailed his financial holdings, his drug distribution activity, his terrorist contacts abroad.

  Reiner looked back at Michael. He was constructing something out of metal, something intricate, with electronic components that fed
out to a mechanical armpiece. Beside it was a Venetian room key and a host of small computer chips.

  He had no idea what it was and knew better than to ask. Tucking the file in a large envelope, he picked up the South China Morning Post, wrapped it around the envelope, and stuck it under his arm.

  “Nice to meet you,” Reiner said as he stuck the small key in the security box and thumbed the numbers.

  “You, too,” Michael said without looking up.

  Reiner exited the building and turned left, taking a different route back to the hotel, his military training well-etched in his mind.

  He moved quickly through the crowds. It was only six blocks to the bridge to the Cotai strip. He thought the place gaudy, and a slap in the face to the decay he walked through now, but with the file under his arm and his uneasiness in the unfamiliar world, he was looking forward to getting back, settling into his room with some room service, and collapsing from exhaustion.

  And then he saw him, just up the sidewalk, standing at the corner facing him, his eyes hidden behind black sunglasses. Reiner didn’t need to look anywhere else to know he was staring at him. Without further thought, Reiner crossed the busy street, cars honking, drivers leaning out their windows, cursing him in Chinese.

  Stepping onto the adjacent sidewalk, he saw the second man… and the third. They were in front and behind him. The first sprinted through the traffic to join his companions. The three were dressed head to toe in black, their shirt pockets decorated with a flowing gold design, 949, shaped like a snake. Their slicked-back black hair coupled with their clothes and sunglasses gave the three the appearance of brothers, though the disparity in their skin tone and height indicated otherwise. Each was thin, sinewy, projecting an aura of violence, of a wild animal coiled and ready to strike.

  In his peripheral vision, Reiner could see people hurrying by, rushing to get away from what they all sensed.

  And before he could think another thought, the first man struck, his leg sweeping up, striking Reiner in the ribs. Reiner quickly shook off the blow and drew back his fist, but with his focus on the lead man, the other two moved in with a flurry of punches and kicks, a coordinated attack from opposite sides. Before Reiner knew it, they had snatched his gun from his shoulder holster, tossing it aside, and the newspaper-encased file fell to the sidewalk.

  Reiner was strong and muscled, his body absorbing the blows as he fought back, his iron fist connecting with the first man’s jaw. But when Reiner’s arms struck a blow or moved to block a fist, another attack from the second or third man would hit him on the blind side. His focus was pulled in all directions as he desperately tried to defend himself; each blow from the gang members was well placed, not deadly but debilitating, each one crushing a piece of his life, like a death by a thousand wounds.

  And through it all, people continued to rush by, no one wanting to get involved in defending a foreigner, risking their lives for an American. There were no cops, no shouting and screaming for someone to do something. Everyone moved on, thankful not to be the victim.

  Reiner quickly tired, yet the three continued, increasing their attacks, their kicks, cracking ribs, shattering his jaw, his blood flowing freely. Though his attackers were far smaller, they were more than winning; they were slowly killing him.

  His vision blurring, he glimpsed the newspaper, the file protruding from its folds on the ground no doubt their goal. He needed to keep it out of the open; he had to get it back to the colonel. But as he reached for it, his body beyond the point of exhaustion, he finally collapsed.

  And his feeling of claustrophobia rose up, enveloping him, squeezing his lungs, squeezing his mind. Pain covered his body, broken bones burned with agony as the three lifted him up and dragged him into a nearby alley.

  A stench filled his nostrils, but he wasn’t sure if it was the alley or his body as it edged near death. He was dragged down a long set of concrete stairs into a room with nothing but a single chair, which was cast aside as he was thrown to the floor. The lead man tore through his pockets, emptying them, tossing everything aside but his room key and wallet.

  The door was closed, and as he glanced up, he saw a man emerge from the shadows, his face obscured.

  The lead gang member handed the newspaper-encased file to a shirtless, heavily tattooed man, a fresh bandage on his stomach. Though Reiner couldn’t see his face, he had no doubt who it was. Xiao opened the file, examining pages, turning them, nodding his head, finally closing it. The gang member then passed over Reiner’s wallet and key card.

  Struggling to remain conscious, Reiner felt his thoughts drift to his wife, her warm smile, her dark eyes. She had been so relieved when he had left combat for good, thankful that her husband was finally out of harm’s way, that she would never be visited by an Army captain with an American flag delivering news she couldn’t bear to hear.

  Reiner lay there broken and bloody. He had survived two wars, countless battles, two bullet wounds, and countless bouts in the ring. His mother ascribed it to prayer, his wife to skill, but he always ascribed it to luck—which finally seemed to have run its course.

  Reiner looked up at the weapon in this new man’s hand. He had prepared himself for death since his first deployment years ago; he had gone to confession weekly without fail, always ensuring his soul was pure, that no sin would bar him from the afterlife. He imagined death by bullet, roadside bomb, an IED, or a land mine, but in all his military life he’d never thought he would die this way. His eyes were fixed on the razor edge of the sword as it cleaved the foul air in a shimmering blur.

  And as the blade pierced his skin, slicing through his neck, there was the sensation of fire, the feeling of drowning, the loss of all hope before the world turned to darkness.

  CHAPTER 31

  “Only one message,” the young concierge said as she handed Colonel Lucas a sealed envelope.

  “Thank you,” Lucas said with a nod. Dressed in khakis, a dark oxford, and a sport coat, he looked every bit the businessman trying for casual. He had made a quick sweep of the casino floor, his eyes focused on the rear service-area door. His goal, his prize, was so close, one hundred feet below where he stood.

  He finally turned around to read the letter in private.

  Starving, gone to grab a quick bite, back by ten. It’s been so long, I’ve missed you! In case you forget, I’m the redhead with the beautiful jade and ivory comb in her hair.

  Love, Pam

  Lucas smiled as he tucked the letter in his pocket.

  “Isaac?”

  Lucas turned to see Jon approaching. The younger man knew better than to address him with a title that would draw attention.

  “How’s our friend making out?” Lucas asked.

  “He’s pissed but scared for his girlfriend.”

  “To the point of distraction?”

  “No. He seems professional, focused. And I think he’s got a plan coming together.”

  Lucas nodded. “I’m heading to my room for dinner. Join me.”

  “Can’t. I’ve got some things to arrange. I’ll stop by when I’m done to give you a full debriefing.

  BUSCH SAT IN the back of McSorley’s Old Ale House; it had always been one of his favorite bars. Situated on Seventh Street in the East Village in New York City, it was one of those places where you could just smell the history. At more than 150 years old, it had served celebrities and thieves, sports stars and politicians: Lincoln drank there, Mickey Mantle, John Lennon, Teddy Roosevelt. Their motto for 120 years was Good Ale, Raw Onions, No Ladies… until 1970, when they were forced by the courts to allow women, though management ensured that the only bathrooms were for men.

  Of course, the McSorley’s that Busch sat in now was in the Venetian. Much like many of the restaurants and shops in the enormous facility, it was as if management had stolen the ambiance, menu, and design from Manhattan and dropped it in this Chinese city.

  But to Busch, it didn’t matter; it was a taste of home. A plate of buffalo wings, a hambur
ger smothered in Texas chili, a bucket of fries and a tall mug of lager would help to soothe a yearning for home let alone his craving for normal food.

  Busch was hungry as usual, and Michael had insisted he eat without him as he was dealing with some logistics and wasn’t hungry at all. Of course, Busch would order him the same dinner he was having, to go. He knew his friend would be hungry and would make sure he ate. And besides, he knew he himself would be hungry again later anyway.

  A tall red-haired woman entered the restaurant; she was elegant, turning heads as she made her way across the room. The blond hostess greeted her and escorted her to the table across from Busch. She turned Busch’s way and smiled as she sat down and ordered a white wine.

  “Here on business?”

  “How did you know?” Busch said.

  “Business travelers, when not entertaining a client or the boss, usually eat alone.”

  “Actually, I’m with friends, kind of a business-pleasure trip,” Busch said, a hint of nerves in his voice. “And you?”

  “I’m meeting my boyfriend later, but I’m starving; I can’t wait for him.”

  “I’m always starving. My wife, Jeannie, says I’m eating for two.”

  “Do you mind if I join you?” The woman stood up and offered her hand. “Pamela Weiss.”

  “Paul Busch,” Busch said as he stood, smiled, and shook her hand.

  “I wouldn’t normally invite myself,” Pamela said as she sat, “but you brought up your wife, which says so much about a man, and I hate eating alone.”

  Busch continued to smile. He loved Jeannie, and stepping out on her had never crossed his mind, though he always enjoyed the ego boost when a woman offered him attention. He had made a new friend, a female friend, and he was up eighteen thousand dollars and feeling pretty proud of himself. Luck was on his side, which made him feel good about their chances later on.